


you, in technicolour

by strawberriez8800



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Eames forges Arthur, Established Relationship, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, They are very soft here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26560888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: Eames tries to forge Arthur as a coping mechanism when he misses him, because spotty video calls just don't cut it anymore.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51





	you, in technicolour

The first time Eames tries to forge Arthur, he does so in Siem Reap, oceans away from Arthur for the thirteenth month in a row.

In the dream, Eames is in Hallstatt, because that’s where Arthur has his retreat cottage when he wants to disappear for a while. Eames has only seen the house once, two years ago when Arthur, bless him, decided it was a good idea to let Eames into his life outside of professional mind heists.

(To this day Eames still isn’t sure if that was a good idea, because Arthur deserves only the best and Eames is far from such. But he trusts Arthur’s judgement, so the case is closed.)

The details of the cottage are hazy, but recognisable if you don’t look too closely. Eames is standing in front of the mirror in Arthur’s bathroom, with Arthur’s eyes appraising him in the reflection. Except they’re not quite Arthur’s eyes, because there’s no gentle mischief in them that Eames adores, and the tilt of his mouth are slightly off-kilter in the way Eames can’t quite pinpoint.

Eames traces the line of Arthur’s lips as he watches himself in the mirror. Even his version of Arthur’s lips feels different, which is absurd, because Eames has kissed them more times than he remembers yet not enough at once.

These nuances infuriate Eames. It’s but an utter failure of a forge that reminds him exactly why he hasn’t tried to forge Arthur earlier, because Arthur’s not just a mark; Arthur is _Arthur_ and there is no substitute for that.

It’s both a blessing and a curse.

He keeps trying regardless, because it’s been thirteen months since Arthur saw him off, and Eames might commit gratuitous murder out of frustration if he doesn’t find a coping mechanism.

Spotty video calls and HD selfies just don’t cut it anymore.

* * *

Eames arranges to meet with Arthur in Spain a month later, after Eames’s job well done in Siem Reap and Arthur’s that has just begun in Valencia. Arthur, the sensible shite that he is, refused to pick Eames up from the airport because he doesn’t want to be seen together, citing annoying yet logical reasons pertaining to both of them being on a duo hit-list of a vengeful ex-client in this city. So Eames sits through the taxi ride with a driver that navigates like he has somewhere else to be, and miraculously arrives at Arthur’s hotel intact.

He kisses Arthur silly at first sight, pushes him against the closing door and tells him how much he missed him without saying a word. Arthur laughs lightly into the kiss, slender and strong fingers threading through Eames’s hair. He breathes into the curve of Arthur’s neck, and is greeted by the fragrance of Arthur’s day-old Soleil Blanc that Eames has long been perceiving as home.

“I ditched a Zoom call for you,” Arthur says, imprinting his words against Eames’s jaw, already stripping Eames’s shirt off with impatient hands. “That says something, Eames.”

“More than you know,” Eames tells him, and bloody hell does he mean it because he fucking missed Arthur too. “We need remote dreamshare technology _yesterday_.”

Arthur murmurs words of assent. He traces Eames’s brow with his fingers, a mild frown creasing his perfect, beautiful face as he looks at Eames. “Christ, my projections of you aren’t even close.”

Eames halts ever briefly at Arthur’s casual admission. “Neither is my forging of you, so I guess we’re even, darling.”

Arthur stares at him, amused. “You forged me?”

Shrugging, Eames says, “Tried to.” He opens his suitcase and pulls out a set of fresh clothes. “I’ll have you know you’re a deceptively difficult one. Could never get you right.”

“That, Eames,” Arthur says, grinning, “might actually be the most romantic thing you’ve done.”

* * *

Eames spends most of the week holed up in the hotel room while Arthur is out working, because he’s been playing tourist for the last year in Southeast Asia and now all he wants to do is curl up in bed for the next.

What better way to spend his free time than to practice his Arthur-forging for darker days? So he does, hooked up to his PASIV as he passes out in Arthur’s bed. This time he dreams of Reine and its lush trees and rising mountains and rolling clouds. He’s in Arthur’s skin again, watching his own reflection on the mirror-still lake. Eames doesn’t get Arthur quite right here, either. There’s always something missing in his eyes, or the way he smiles, or the way his half-amused laugh tints the air with Arthur’s brand of loveliness.

Eames awakes to Arthur watching him by the foot of the bed. Instinctive, Eames reaches for the chip in his pocket, runs his thumb across the familiar indents and raised prints that anchor him to the truth.

“Where were you?” Arthur asks, a smile hinting at his lips like sunlight peeking through foliage.

“Looking for you, at the lake.”

Arthur quirks a brow. “Reine?”

“Mmm.”

Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, eyes on Eames all the while. “Did you get me right this time?” he asks, voice light but curious. “The forging that is.”

Eames was hoping he wouldn’t be _this_ transparent, but nothing gets past Arthur. “Not quite,” he admits, reluctant.

Arthur doesn’t miss a beat. “Why? You’ve never had issues with your marks.”

“I know you too well,” Eames says, speculating. “Every nuance sticks out like a bloody neon sign to me even when no one else would notice. Yourself included. Unless you're secretly a narcissist who watches yourself in the mirror at every spare moment.”

Arthur reaches for Eames’s hand, brushing a finger across Eames’s knuckles absentmindedly. “So, how can I help?”

Eames suggests a plan for Arthur to assess his forging, though he suspects it would be a futile exercise for reasons he mentioned. Nonetheless, Arthur and Eames go under; in the dream, they find themselves in Paris at the warehouse where they put together the Fischer job. “Ah, happy days,” Eames grumbles.

“Shut up,” Arthur says mildly. “It was the first thing that came to mind. The last job we worked together and all.”

Once they get settled, for the first time Eames forges Arthur in front of the man himself. He must have done a decent job, because the look on Arthur’s face is nothing short of impressed and disturbed. “This is weird,” Arthur says. “Fucking _weird,_ Eames.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Eames says in Arthur’s voice. “But you’re simply proving my point, aren’t you, because I don’t need a mirror to know there’s so much I’m getting _wrong_ here—”

“Eames, stop.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is too weird. I need you back as yourself, now.”

Before long, they return to Arthur’s hotel room in Valencia, and Eames is no better at forging Arthur now than he was an entire month ago.

* * *

For the next three days, Eames continues his attempt in bringing Arthur to life in dreamscape.

“The issue is getting the details correct, yes?” Arthur says one evening after Eames complains about yet another failed attempt. “Details that are, for all intents and purposes, superfluous to anyone who isn’t you.”

“Because I love you.”

Arthur grins at that and closes his laptop. He climbs into bed, where Eames is sitting against the headboard, and straddles him. “Close your eyes,” Arthur says, and when Eames simply looks up at him with confusion, he repeats, “Close your eyes, Eames.”

He obliges, and soon after he feels Arthur take his hand and bring it to his face. Arthur’s cheek is rough from the hint of stubble against Eames’s fingers. Warm, too, from the Valencian summer heat that he’s just returned from.

“Pay attention,” Arthur says softly as he guides Eames’s hand up the plane of his cheekbone and rests on his forehead. “You want details, you get details. Oh and, no peeking.”

“Look at you, revolutionising the study of forgery,” Eames says, teasing.

“Focus,” Arthur says, quiet laughter in his voice. “I’m only letting you do this once.”

Falling silent, Eames hones his attention on the feeling of Arthur beneath his touch—the rise of his brow bone, the dip between his eyes, the particular way his lips quirk when he smiles. Eames’s breath catches in his chest, involuntary, when he feels Arthur place a kiss on the pad of his finger, then the next, and the next until the sensation of Arthur himself finds a forever home in Eames’s mind.

“Well?” Arthur asks later, when Eames relents to his yearning to pull Arthur close instead. “Do you think that helped?”

Eames shrugs. He’s only observed his marks from a distance as a precursor to his forgery; _touching_ the subject’s face is so beyond the realm of his usual study that he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“I’ll find out soon enough,” Eames says, dreading the words as he does.

* * *

Two weeks later, Eames is on a flight to Auckland for the next job while Arthur stays back in Spain.

On the first night in his hotel room, Eames takes out his PASIV.

(He would never admit to Arthur he’s given in on the first bloody night away, of course, but in this corner of the world, no one else has to know.)

This time, he dreams of warm grassy fields beneath the sunset. He dreams of freesias, Arthur’s favourite scent, and most of all he dreams of Arthur.

In this dream, Arthur seems closer to reality than ever, and for that Eames is content.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this sudden urge to read some Eames-forging-Arthur fic, but could not find too many that fit this specific trope, so I wrote one, and had a blast with it. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
